The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  The coincidence was too jarring. I needed to make sense of things. My mind gripped reality like a hand taking hold of a spinning wheel. There couldn’t have been more than one carnival by the docks. While I was consorting with a strange man in a tent, my dear sister could have been mere meters away. I sat on his bed with him! If something had happened. If he had forced his way with me, or I lost my faculties and. . .

  I couldn’t finish the thought. I was supposed to be raising my sister—to be an example! What state of mind had I been in last night? What madness! I risked everything. Why? Thirst for a new story was a poor excuse, and I couldn’t fully invest my conviction in it. There had to be another way to realize my father’s vision.

  “I have to go,” I interrupted. Anna’s mouth locked in its open position.

  “Go?” she stammered. “But I hardly saw you at all yesterday! You haven’t told me your news. Heavens, I haven’t even finished mine!”

  “I have an appointment I forgot about,” I lied.

  “I won’t let you just go off like this,” she protested. “At least give me a hint, or I’ll be devastated all day. Did you set a date with Byron at last?”

  I wiped my hands on a napkin and gathered my gloves.

  “The story took. It turns out, I’m a hit writer,” I said with a curt nod. She shouted and applauded me as I walked out the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From the Ashes

  I DIDN’T KNOW where I was going. I couldn’t go to Byron. I couldn’t face him yet. Instead, I wandered the streets, investigating cobblestone byways I had passed all my life without notice. There were dead flowers in the little green patches here and there tucked behind brick quarter walls. Occasionally along the way, dormant trees grew stark and gnarled from holes in the sidewalk. Their crooked tendrils beckoned at me accusingly.

  It was a typically overcast day in late September. I just needed to walk. The autumn air nipped at my cheeks. The mid-morning had the streets alive in activity. Horses trotted by under the whip of their drivers. Clean men in dark waistcoats and gloves carried parcels down the street, burying their chin in their collars to guard against the breeze off the river not far away. Nowhere could I escape the call of salesmen shouting out recent headlines.

  “City police causing panic with story about Fog Men!” one man called to me as I passed. I wasn’t sure which had me more frightened: the fogman or the specter of my recent success. How could I possibly replicate it? I wandered by a poor woman on her knees, begging for alms, and thought I saw my own face under the bonnet, sickly coughing. I dug in my purse for a few coins, wishing I could spare more. As usual, my reserves were shallower than I’d wish, but I tossed in a few just the same.

  Soon, I’d have the rent to worry about. One story wouldn’t deal with Mr. Stringham. Not for the long term by any rate. Perhaps soon, I too was destined for the street. No. I had choices. I could marry Byron, even if I didn’t tell him about going to the carnival. I had to find another story.

  The city looked so much like itself. One street after another presenting houses, storefronts, building facades. Here a butcher, there a thatcher. The scent of bread from the bakeries beckoned to me through open doors or windows. I passed more newsstands and tried to shake off my surprise at seeing Langley’s in a prominent showing nearest the road. “The Steely-Eyed Detective: Case of the Fog Man” by Travis Blakely. In my head, the pen name rang with Bram’s voice. I couldn’t shake the curious tone of his voice while divulging my secret. How did he know? Had he been stalking me? Spying on me?

  Could it really be magic?

  I wound up at Barker’s Bakeshop, where Mrs. Barker rung up my order without asking what I wanted. Apparently, I had become quite a regular. I walked out with a parcel of their iced buns and went on my way.

  My mother had taught Anna and me often when we were children, when in doubt, find something to do for someone else. It was a good Christian approach to life. I hadn’t yet expressed my due gratitude to Edward. Perhaps these iced buns would be just the thing. Now there was some magic I could get behind. The magical effect of a superb baked good.

  Maybe life could stay simple. I didn’t actually do anything inappropriate with Bram. I grabbed his hand, but that was just to prevent him from walking out on me. I’d have done the same with a brother. Sitting on the bed could also be considered familial. With time, the guilt would be swept into reasonable explanation, and I might not feel anything at all. Life could still go on. If I walked into the station now, I could dig up more leads, and I could keep writing on the police force. Maybe Edward would see another ghost. Even if it wasn’t a ghost, I was sure the coppers uncovered enough oddities to keep Langley’s afloat. I didn’t need to be the best-selling writer in the country, simply a respectable one.

  But, there was still that lingering moment when Bram had almost kissed me. More importantly, I was afraid in that moment I had wanted him to.

  I brushed these thoughts aside with a few quick steps up and into the station.

  “I’m here looking for Lieutenant Edward Thomas,” I said to the same red-headed clerk behind the desk.

  He bent over his copy of The Dawnhurst Happenings and looked up at me. “Are you here to file a missing persons report?”

  “What? No! For the last time,” I said, “I’m not here to file a missing person. I just want to talk with somebody.”

  “Talk with someone, mum? Are you experiencing some type of trauma? Need to get it off your mind? You don’t look well.” I was furious that this dimwitted man wouldn’t just treat me like a normal human being. But, I was even more furious that his question was completely merited.

  “Edward Thomas,” I repeated through gritted teeth.

  “Right, right. I think he is down the hall near the holding cell,” the man said, turning back to his papers. “Just brought in a proper brigand, he did. Don’t usually let women back there. Why don’t you have a seat down the hall?”

  I was growing accustomed to glowering at this man over a resentful nose, but I thanked him nonetheless, made my way down, and took a seat again, across from Ms. Turner. She was, as before, flying her fingers over a typewriter, her hair pulled back haphazardly, with a stray lock falling in front of her face. I spied a copy of Langley’s sticking out from under her stack of papers. She looked at me and blew the hair out of the way.

  “You’re back,” she said. “Here to see Sergeant Cooper? Or are you here to see the Steely-Eyed Detective.” She glanced for a split second toward the hidden weekly.

  I blushed, clutching my pack of pastries.

  “I just—I wanted to see if Edward—Lieutenant Thomas—had any other stories I could—”

  “Darling, we all read the piece. I, frankly, loved it,” she said.

  “You did?” For the very first time, I allowed myself to feel flattered and relieved. I couldn’t explain why, but Ms. Turner’s opinion meant a great deal to me.

  “Certainly. And you could do much worse than Lieutenant Thomas.”

  The shade in my face deepened. “It’s not like that. I’m engaged,” I stammered.

  “You mentioned that the other day, too. Relax, dear, it’s all just fiction anyway, isn’t it?” she winked. I was speechless. Nothing in my story suggested that Edward and I were anything more than acquaintances. I wasn’t even mentioned in the story at all. I wrote under a pen name, for heaven’s sake. My thoughts drifted back to Byron’s reaction when I unveiled the story’s title. He was immediately jealous. I pretended not to notice, but only a fool would think otherwise.

  How many times in a week was I going to break Byron’s heart?

  I sat in silence, brooding over Ms. Turner’s insinuations. I could sweep the comments of old nosey geese like Mrs. Crow and Mrs. Barker under the rug. My sister was my baby sister. She was obsessed with Jacob. I expected nothing less from her. But, if Ms. Turner told me I had written a love story, then I guess I had written a love story.

  But this was nonsense. I hardly knew her at all.
I’d spoken with her two times, briefly. What did it matter if she thought my writing was girlish? What did I care if all the women in my life were hollow? Can’t a woman talk about a man without raising eyebrows all over the world?

  The clerk from the front promptly brought Edward to me and dismissed himself. The poor man stood alert and erect, which by now I considered his usual demeanor, but he was also soaking wet under a scratchy looking blanket. I could see into his chest, where he wore a dry, unbuttoned henley shirt, patched with transparent damp spots. His hair was neatly combed, still shiny as if he had recently gone swimming. His eyes took me in, brows relaxed into an amiable expression.

  “And what happened to you?” Ms. Turner asked, not getting up from her desk.

  “Fool of a man tried to escape across to the east bank of the river,” he responded, without taking his eyes from me. He added a warm smile and tilted his head to Ms. Turner. “Got him, though.”

  My imagination bore me to the scene where Edward, brave and bold, chased some criminal to the bridge. It must have been a scene, seeing the iron-eyed wolf dive into the water and wrestle his foe to the shoreline. I stared.

  “Your story was a success, Ms. Winthrop,” he said with a courteous bow. “Every officer we have is now calling me the Steely-Eyed Detective. The actual detectives are furious about it.”

  “But I never mentioned your name. How did they know it was you?”

  “I’m afraid my story of seeing a phantom in the fog had already circulated among the ranks by the time your story published,” he replied, drawing in a deep breath that filled out his chest under the blanket.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm,” I said. How stupid of me to think I could really keep this man’s identity a secret. It was a pipe dream, especially around his colleagues.

  “I saw what I saw, Ms. Winthrop,” he said plainly. “I don’t feel ashamed about it. If the other men don’t believe me, they can fight me if they want, but truth is truth, and I’ll stick by my story.”

  There was something about him standing there spouting off his conviction that shook me. Truth was truth. This police lieutenant, I was confident, would go through just about anything before breaking his word or retreating. His integrity filled the room. In comparison, I reflected on my own position. I had always imagined writers as paladins of truth and right. Writers brought knowledge to light, elaborated on points that may be unforeseen to others, and unveiled valid emotional context. I, after the pressure of one hot sale, fell apart at the seams and was driven to great lengths to extend my success.

  Are you a woman that likes to laugh? Bram’s words kept burrowing their way back to the surface of my memory.

  “Your courage inspires me, Lieutenant Thomas,” I finally managed to say.

  “You are the inspiration, Ms. Winthrop. I admire your gumption to write the way you do. Given your use of a male pen name, I can only imagine you fought quite hard to be where you are now.”

  I blushed. “Well, it’s nothing like fighting criminals.”

  “No. It’s far more courageous,” he said with a soft smile. He looked like a Greek statue. How could a Greek statue smile so softly?

  “These are for you,” I said, clumsily presenting my parcel, hearing Ms. Turner’s eyebrows pique in curiosity.

  “For me?”

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” I replied, finding it very hard to meet his gaze. “Your account has made no small impact on my career.”

  “I was just doing my job, Ms. Winthrop. It’s hardly worth rewarding me for.”

  “Take it as a token of friendship then,” I insisted. He looked at me tenderly before accepting and peeking inside the parcel. He laughed.

  “Well, if only all friendships started on such a delicious and wonderful footing. Thank you very much.” He bowed his head. I blushed. Ms. Turner breathed heavily.

  “What story are you working on next?” he asked.

  “That’s exactly why I’m here,” I answered after clearing my throat. “You haven’t happened to see any more ghosts recently, have you?”

  Ms. Turner snorted. I forgot she was there. It was a small hallway, after all. We both looked at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “If you wanted a private conversation, you really should have had it somewhere other than, you know, my desk.” Edward looked amused and unfazed. What must it be like to go through life without fearing God or man?

  “I’m afraid I haven’t,” he said, turning back to me.

  “I hoped as much, for your sake,” I said, touching his arm, which, unsurprisingly, was quite firm. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind me writing about this episode that has you soaking wet.”

  “Not much to tell, really.”

  He was cut off by an absolute racket near the front of the station. I recognized Sergeant Cooper’s voice booming orders at his subordinates clear as crystal through the wall. We turned, and I saw him coming our way, practically filling the hallway. A clerk followed, desperately trying to keep up and take his jacket.

  “Just take the ruddy thing!” he bellowed. “We’re going to be hit with a storm of reporters. Just our lucky day. If it weren’t so funny, I’d just be livid about the whole thing!” He stopped at Ms. Turner’s desk and noticed me. “And the first one is already here! Good ruddy afternoon!”

  “What is it Sergeant?” Edward asked.

  “How did you know to be here already? I should have known you would be. You had the smell of ink from the get-go. But go on, fill us in! What is the secret reporter magic that alerts them to things that aren’t their business?” he asked, pointing a big, fat finger at me. With his other hand, he fished an iced bun out of the package in Edward’s hands and took a big bite.

  “I beg your pardon,” I responded. The nerve of this man to point at me like that, my father’s friend or no.

  “You’re here for the skinny,” he insisted through a mouthful of food.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just here trying to a drum up a story from Lieutenant Thomas.”

  “Well, whatever you got from him, let me do you a favor. This one’s better,” he said, heading through his door, plopping into his chair, and swinging two dirty shoes on to his desk.

  Edward, Ms. Turner, and I all gaped at him.

  “It’s been a bank robbery,” he said, “except not just a usual bank robbery. Two gents rode in on horseback, dressed in shining ruddy armor, as if they were King Arthur’s lot, waved their swords around, grabbed the money, and rode off.”

  “Odd’s fish!” cried Edward.

  I felt my knees weaken. I put a hand on the door frame to steady myself.

  “Gets better, though,” Cooper continued. “We caught up to them and managed to talk them down off the horses and to hand over their tools of medieval warfare. We get their helmets off, and it’s none other than Mr. Bradford and his manservant! They couldn’t even remember how they got there.”

  “Mr. Bradford?” Ms. Turner echoed. “The president of the railway station?”

  I couldn’t breathe. The world got fuzzy, and my eyes rolled back. Muffled voices and someone’s arms ushered me into a chair.

  “Ms. Winthrop, are you alright?” I think it was Edward talking, but I couldn’t concentrate. This had to be a trick, or else I was dreaming. They were pulling one over on me.

  How did Sergeant Cooper know what I had scribbled with that pen?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fit of Jealousy

  IT TOOK THE Sergeant nearly an hour to convince me that what he was saying was true. I didn’t believe him until he had me examine what could only be a slash wound from a broadsword on one of his men.

  It took even longer for me to convince them that I was well after my faint. “I was just overheated,” I repeated again and again. After drinking a substantial amount of water and elevating my feet against my will, I finally won the day and was allowed to leave for the very urgent business I promised to have.

  Edward seemed particula
rly hesitant to let me go. His eyes lingered on me under deeply furrowed brows. He urged me to allow him to get me a hansom, but I refused. “I prefer to walk,” I said. “It’ll be good for me after such a spell.” To this, he could not but acquiesce.

  After turning the corner and escaping what I knew were watchful eyes through windows, I doubled my pace. I had questions, and I wanted answers.

  First, though, I felt vindicated. I had gone to that carnival with the intent to get a story, and I came away with a story well enough. Given the lengths I went to uncover it, I owed it to Byron to write the story and launch his publication into greater success. Justification was such sweet relief! My outing was a celebration of the freedom that came with being a successful writer. I could go anywhere and transform my experience into something tangible for my sister and me.

  While I was there, I did what all good writers do. I observed, sniffed out something odd, and investigated. My intuition led me to another story. Was it magic? I doubted it. It was more likely that Bram had somehow worked out some type of con to get Mr. Bradford to behave in such a way. Perhaps he drugged him. Perhaps he drugged me last night. Who could say? Maybe it was hypnotism. I had watched ordinary people behave in bizarre ways at the carnival in the hypnotist’s ring. Dressing up silly and performing an act like this had the stench of that hypnotist’s act all over it.

  Most importantly, I now had a sturdy reason to hold up my choices from the night before, sturdier than being tipsy from celebration cordials. Did that mean I would tell Byron about the carnival? I doubted he would understand. What difference should it make to him where the story came from anyway. The poor wreck got insecure enough when I talked about Edward. I couldn’t imagine how he would manage hearing about my encounter with Bram. He’d worry himself sick for no reason at all. After all, nothing really happened between us. He just showed me a bizarre trinket that he claimed was magic.

  I just never thought he’d go to such lengths to elaborate on his claims.